


drown

by captaincastello



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9081115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Under the water, nothing can touch him. Nothing hurts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for [ alteanbae](http://www.alteanbae.tumblr.com) on tumblr!
> 
> hi it's me, your secret santa ;;w;; i'm sorry that this came a few days after the actual holiday, but i hope you like it! t.t xoxo

Under the soft light of the pale Arusian moon, the entire castle seems to have fallen asleep, save for the constant whirring and steady yet almost inaudible hum of her mechanized anatomy. Concurrently and contrastingly, she seems fully awake, as if to hold her breath and wait for things to happen after dark, allowing Shiro to quietly venture out of his quarters to join the shadows erected by moonlight.

On any other day, Shiro would have stayed up after hours and sat himself by a large glass window just to look out on the alien horizon and map out the stars in his mind. On any other day, he might not have gone out for a walk to intentionally drown.

It’s a tiny lake flanked by a palette of glowing pastel-colored pebbles surrounded by large rocks and towering purple and turquoise trees, a basin of stars and dark sky at night that he had discovered from atop a cliff while scouting the perimeter around the Castle of Lions. After being held in captivity for a year, he yearned for the outdoors, and the unseen beauty of the planet Arus isn’t something a natural explorer like him could simply deprive himself of. He’s done the routine checks over time – the water isn’t in any way harmful to human skin, and isn’t home to any carnivorous predators.

This particular lake has become his secret haven, a place of silent refuge when he needs it.

There are days in which he finds that the need to tune the entire galaxy else out just outweighs everything, like a much desired drug.

There are days when his senses go haywire, like his own body’s disallowing him control over it.

He _feels_ words – _Champion. Captive. Prison_ – they cut pierce maim bite sting with unperceivable claws and teeth, leave him beaten and wounded without any physically manifesting injuries. He bleeds in places he can’t see; somewhere he needs fixing yet he can’t seem to reach inside to even begin to heal.

He _tastes_ memories, scattered jagged pieces of himself that feel thick and heavy and something bitter and rotten on his tongue like bile or vomit. Sometimes they’re names, faint sounds like footsteps, or a distorted image of a face or place, and they all taste the same – like _fear_.

He _hears_ his scars – rough patches of broken skin and overlapping flecks of white, irremovable marks that decorate his body, each whispering a bloody morbid tale or simply a name of a prisoner he was forced to contend with in the arena. _You promised you wouldn’t hurt us you said you’ll find a way you weren’t supposed to be like them you said you wouldn’t let them make you you said you wouldn’t hurt_ —

Sometimes he wants to escape; sometimes he just wants to be _anyone_ , not _someone_ , because _someone_ always has to have to do something that matters, always has to be brave and strong.

Sometimes all he needs, _wants_ , is to drown.

Just one minute.

He swears it will be just a minute under the unperturbed glass surface of the starless water.

Quick, before the darkness recedes and the sun swallows up all the other smaller lights.

Quickly, _now_.

 _Submerge_.

The lake tunes everything out – numbs his senses, envelops his body like a protective barrier, momentarily cuts him off from the clutches of unforgiving reality. For a moment, his scars don’t burn nor sting. Voices don’t echo nor scream nor bleed. No rhythmic footfalls that stop by the metal door, no cold domineering hands to pull him out into the arena. No foreign noises or sensations to remind him of anything.

For a moment, nothing hurts.

The desire to stay in this comfort for longer than sixty seconds is tempting – sometimes he even wonders if it’s possible to stay in eternal tranquil like this, unbreathing.

For a _moment_.

_Just one minute just one minute just one minute just one minute just one minute just one minute just one minute it’s more than a minute_

Everything is quiet. Everything disappears.

Then.

Without warning, something breaks.

A slight disturbance, a small yet widening ripple cuts through the surface – Shiro hears something like a distant explosion, feels the sudden sporadic change in the current – suddenly firm hands find his arms chest neck torso everything, and they don’t care about his scars and lasting imperfections. These hands just hold onto him.

They latch.

The moment of numbness is over.

In the end, basic human wiring kicks itself into gear, and the natural instinct to survive sends all his internal alarms into a frenzy, screaming wailing begging frantically for every fabric of his being to hear this one simple command: _Breathe_.

They break out of the deep blue into open air, where Shiro hears the world release the breath it has been holding, waiting watching rooting for him to come back.

All the signs of his own mortality hit him instantaneously like a tidal wave – his heart is pounding in his ears, hammering madly in protest against his ribcage, angry at him for wanting to get lost in the drunken stupor of unfeelingness for too long. His chest his lungs his everything is on fire, burning and aching for lost air, for more time to fight so that no one else has to endure what he had to.

Being alive with what he knows, what he’s seen, what he’s lived through – being alive like this just hurts.

And yet hurting doesn’t mean he has to be alone.

He feels a hand against the back of his head, a steady heart nestled against his ear, an aching soul to match his own, and it’s not just _anyone_ – it’s _someone_.

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know – even in the dark of night, even in blindness or in any absence of his senses, he’ll always be certain of the one constant beside him. He’ll always know those beautiful amethyst eyes and warm gaze and soft smile; even if he doesn’t deserve this, he’ll know.

And of course it makes sense.

The good thing that happens despite all the bad – it’s Keith. His voice is a lullaby that tethers Shiro to reality, whispering words that don’t bite don’t cut don’t burn.

_I’ve got you I’ve got you I’ve got you I’ve got you_

 

 

 

 

There’s nothing but a deep silence in his ears, as if it was the language of the lake, and it was speaking to him with the knowledge that he’d understand. Sunlight perforates the waters in soft packets of light, settling like brightly colored stained glass on the surface yet never quite reaching the bottom. He’s been swimming for what seems like more than the time he thought it would take before the Sisters realized they were missing two kids from the pack, which means that they’re probably looking for them by now.

A few meters away, a tiny hand breaks into the calm glassy frontier, palm open to shake hands with the water, making friends. Keith knows to take that hand.

He swims closer, reaches out until the spaces between his fingers are filled. They latch.

He pushes up, kicks out with his tiny legs until the top of his head meets Shiro’s above the surface.

“Hey,” Shiro says quietly, and Keith can’t help but wonder why his smile is brighter than the sun.

“Hey,” Keith echoes, just before he hears their names being called from a distance behind the trees surrounding the tiny lake.

“I think we have to go now,” Shiro says, but he doesn’t move from where he’s lying near the edge of the rickety wooden dock. “We’ll miss dinner again. I hear it’s spaghetti night.”

“Camp rules suck,” Keith rolls his eyes, tugs on Shiro’s hand in his under the water. “Why did we get out anyway if it will still be like it is in the orphanage?”

“Says the one who’s been prattling on about wanting to swim in the lake,” Shiro arches an eyebrow in amusement, apparently smug about reading him well. “You’re having a lot of fun.”

“The water’s fine,” Keith shrugs, and droplets slide off his sunkissed shoulders like pieces of the afternoon sun. “Nothing can touch me down here.”

“But I can,” Shiro says, gives Keith’s little hand a quick squeeze.

“Keith--! Shiro-!”

Two tiny heads perk up and angle themselves to the direction of the distant muffled calls. The voices – all familiar, a couple of adults and some of the older kids – grow louder, closer. One of them must have overheard Keith saying something about swimming in the lake yesterday, and decided to search for them here.

The tree leaves rustle, tiny twigs and branches snap under the weight of incoming footsteps. Everything sends loud silent tremors as the universe calmly waits for them to be found.

Closer, closer.

Then this moment will be gone forever.

“Let’s stay,” Keith whispers before the idea stays too long in his mind for him to regret it and not say it aloud. This brings Shiro’s back to him, attentive and interested, just like with everything else he does.

Keith sees it now, that mischievous glint in those contemplative grey eyes – he sees the same kid who he’d caught and soon joined in on sneaking out to stargaze on the rooftop multiple times, the evil prankster who dragged him into petty little crimes like switching the insides of toothpaste tubes with mayonnaise or cheese powder for orange juice, the creative genius who shares his own imaginary tales of the origins of self-named stars and heroes as a bed time story for the younger kids.

Keith swallows, feels a little nervous breaking another rule, yet finding comfort and courage knowing that he’s not alone (that it’s Shiro).

“You don’t hear anything underwater. You can just close your eyes and it’s like the whole world disappears.”

 _Or I disappear_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Shiro keeps his eyes on him with a pensive look on his face, a question forming in his mind.

“Even if everything else disappears, will you still hold my hand?”

Keith blinks, surprised at the question, and looks down to see where their fingers are entwined. He doesn’t easily let people get close. Shiro by far has been the only exception. Until now, that doesn’t change. He has Shiro in his hand and he feels a little too selfish, but Shiro makes him feel like it’s not wrong at all.

“I will,” he finally replies, feeling like he just made a promise that he will forever hold dear. He gives Shiro’s hand a light squeeze to emphasize his unwavering conviction. “So will you come swim with me?” _Will you disappear with me?_

Shiro gives him his signature dumb-idiot smile, showing him a row of imperfect teeth and where he’d just lost one the previous week. “Well, it’s not mac-n-cheese tonight, anyway.”

Then, a light splash, and the two boys disappear from the dock.

 

 

 

 

“Was it me?”

Shiro turns to look at Keith. They’re both sitting on the glowing pebbles, an arm’s width away and a million different reasons apart from each other. As if he’s the one who just got out from the water into cool night air, Keith wraps his hands around his knees in a protective gesture, averts his eyes from meeting Shiro’s.

“I was the one who taught you to want to drown,” Keith half-whispers as he draws his attention to a glowing red pebble on the ground, as if looking directly at Shiro is painful for him.

“You taught me a lot of things, Keith,” Shiro says. “Drowning isn’t one of them.”

Keith doesn’t respond, doesn’t let even a single breath out. The silence and the night drags on their slow hinges, giving enough time to contemplate on the things that suddenly matter. Shiro thinks back on what Keith is most likely referring to – that day in the campground’s tiny lake when they were kids. Those few minutes he had lain himself down on the dock to watch Keith, a distorted figure of flesh and dark hair, moving gracefully under the water. He remembers absently wondering if the darkness resting along the riverbed will swallow his friend up.

Then, that moment, lost and yet perpetually preserved in his mind, where they temporarily disappeared _together_.

The question comes out of him, slices through the stillness before he can think about it.

“If I disappear, will you still hold my hand?”

Keith’s body tenses, both an answer and not an answer, at least not a definitive one. Silence settles in once more as he refuses to reply, leaving Shiro to wonder if he had asked the right question, or if it was ever right to have asked at all.

Then suddenly, a response.

Keith reaches his hand out and over Shiro’s outstretched legs to find his cyber prosthetic on his lap. Calloused yet gentle fingers find their places between synthetic ones.

They latch.

Shiro can’t feel the warmth on Keith’s hand where it rests on the metal – instead, he feels it come from somewhere inside, an inexplicable sensation of tender and heat unfurling like a blossoming flower bud deep in his core. His senses are still in whack, but in a good way – the stars and the clouds seem to sing, the moon is laughing and a little thing called happiness bleeds, memories from his childhood dance around in his eyes. Good, comforting memories.

When Shiro looks up, Keith is finally looking at him. He realizes, with sudden stark clarity, that this is the boy who was left behind, who went to be alone in the middle of a desert where there rarely was any body of water, where he drowned in books and maps and in his own memories instead.

This is the boy – no, the man – who continued to hold onto him even as he disappeared.

“I will. And you won’t, because I won’t let you,” he says solemnly, like a secret vow is being made, which it is. “So will you stay beside me?”

Now it’s Shiro’s turn to be silent. A lump has formed and lodged itself in his throat and he finds that he’s having a difficult time drawing in air despite having gotten out of drowning. His eyes feel warm, brimming with entrapped moonlight; his chest feels tight, welling up with hope. The radiant pebbles dig into his palms, and for a moment he thinks maybe it’s possible to hold stars in his hands.

“You always seem to find me, Keith.”

“Only because you always seem to get lost,” Keith replies, manages to choke out an impish snort despite himself. Then his face sobers up, and he looks straight into Shiro’s grey orbs, into the lights dancing inside them like brightly-colored nebulae. He shifts from where he’s sat so he can properly face Shiro, face to face.

“I don’t know your entire story, Shiro – I know you don’t either, maybe not yet – and you don’t need to feel obligated to tell me because I’m staying with you either way. It’s not going to get better in a day or a week or even a month, and maybe talking about it won’t be enough. But we have to go on – each day you survive this is a step closer to better days. I know this, at least, because I got through an entire year – and there you were, at the end of it.”

It’s unbelievable, but Keith is able to make him breathless more effectively than drowning, or maybe that’s what it is – this is what drowning in Keith feels like. Not numbing, not unfeeling – but rather pleasant, comforting, sans the need to give up all his senses and disappear. Drowning in Keith makes him feel more real.

Shiro leans in close, leans in to rest his forehead against Keith’s, leans against him for support like he always does. He tries to gather up everything he wants to say, big lengthy ideas and overwhelming emotions looking to materialize outside his head in verbal form, yet he ends up deciding there’s no way he can follow up after something so raw and honest and so Keith like that. And yet in his arsenal of words, he finds a couple that will surely convey his entire message, ones that Keith will understand without any need of further explanation.

He looks down where their hands meet, where their palms touch like two halves forming a whole, where fingers intertwine.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm kind of nervous about writing ptsd, and i hope this doesn't offend anyone... if any part of this does, please feel free to (preferably gently ;w;) tell me in the comments.  
> thank you for reading!
> 
> belated merry sheithmas all <3


End file.
